


In the curves of certain lines

by msbluesunflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Portraits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-20 10:43:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msbluesunflower/pseuds/msbluesunflower
Summary: Draco stumbles upon a portrait while repairing the Room of Requirement, and thereby uncovers some thousand-year-old secrets. Meanwhile, the wizard in the portrait seems determined to intervene on Draco's love life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Chinese version/自译中文版](http://swordandthepen.lofter.com/post/3d5fe7_fea8371)

Fire. Every time Draco closes his eyes now, there’s fire.

It’s always the same dream, except with variations. Sometimes he’s standing right in the middle of the flames, eyes closed, waiting for the flames to lick up his robes and torch his skin and flesh. Other times, he’s on a broom clutching at a familiar presence, but a sharp turn sends him falling into the fire. Sometimes the other boy’s outstretched hand grazes and misses his. Other times, the hand doesn’t reach for him at all.

But none of these are the most dreaded kind. That, by far, is the one closest to reality, the one where he makes it out of the fire and walks on solid ground, only to witness his savior lying pale and motionless, in a half-giant’s arms.

It’s the last thing Draco sees before he startles awake, drenched in cold sweat. The clock on his bedside table tells him it’s three in the morning. He lies there and inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the familiar air that now smells vaguely of pines and holly from the newly installed Christmas decorations. After a few moments, his breathing finally slows. Even in dreams, the heat makes him feel as if he’s suffocating.

He slips out of bed and pulls on a jumper and some trousers. There’re great things about having individual bedrooms this year, except it also feels disorienting at times. He’s reluctant to admit that he actually misses how Blaise’s small snores and Theo’s incoherent muttering used to ground him in reality when he startles from a nightmare. Now he’s left with himself, alone in the silent darkness.

Pocketing his wand and snatching the notebook on his bedside table, Draco heads down the spiral staircase. The Eighth Year Common Room is quiet save for the crackling of wood in the fireplace and the howling of the wind coming from the outside. The door swings open with a light push, and he steps into the empty corridor. Eighth-Years are no longer bound to their old curfews, only that they can’t leave the interiors of the castle after dark. At the beginning of the semester, Draco would spend sleepless nights in an alcove in the library, obsessively reading just to get out of his own head. Now, however, he’s found something else to occupy himself.

The Room of Requirement wasn’t exactly on top of anyone’s list in the rebuilding of Hogwarts over the summer. Draco, however, recently stumbled upon some books on sentient object repairs and transfiguration implementation that made him want to try to fix it. He’s spent every night since Halloween performing combinations of spells at the brick wall, and he’s gotten so far as getting the double door to show up. He can tell that he’s almost there, and it’s an exhilarating feeling.

Before he knows it, he’s reached the end of the corridor and closed his eyes, requiring the room. The familiar humming noise accompanies the door as it emerges, and a feeling of déjà vu washes over Draco as he remembers, two years back, how he would arrive at this door every night with dread weighing on his chest like a rock. He’s never going to admit it out loud, but his decision to fix the room is purely sentimental—He had made all the wrong choices here. He had died and was reborn here. It means too much for him to allow it to be reduced to ashes and forgotten forever.

He takes the leather bound journal out of his pocket and mutters a _lumos._ On the page, underneath several scratched out spells is one that theoretically should fully restore the door. He whispers it several times to test his pronunciation, before raising his wand at the door, then swish and point.

The door shudders like a new life has been poured into it. And when Draco reaches his right hand to pull at the handle, the door creaks open.

_Finally._

 

 

_“When a sentient object is damaged, it’s likely to lose its perceptive powers and remain in its final state. An exception remains, however, if said object underwent transfiguration. In this case, it shall behave like most transfigured objects and return to its original form, which should exhibit a comparable level of damage.”_

_(Advanced Magical Object Theory, 375)_

Draco flips through his journal and finds the note he had jot down and underlined weeks ago. He had feared that said “original form” would constitute an empty hallway or a broom closet half burned down, which would make his attempt at restoring the room to its full capacity rather difficult, but nothing could’ve prepared him for _this_.

He’s standing in what looks like a medieval style bedchamber. The room is in pristine conditions, decorated in red and gold and brightly lit with floating candles. Walking past the ornate wooden dining table and then through another doorway, a large four-poster bed sits at the center of the room, with gold-embroidered red velvet hanging on the sides. There’s a work desk by the windows, which open toward the lake, and the cold winter air seeping through the seams between the delicate glass panes reminds Draco that this is all very much real. He looks around the room in search for any signs of damage from the fire—burnt down walls, destroyed furniture, anything—yet found absolutely none, as if the place was only furnished yesterday.

It occurs to Draco then that he may have just found the Gryffindor equivalent of the Chamber of Secrets, and he hopes to Merlin that there’s not a thousand year old dragon or lion hidden in here somewhere. He glances down at the journal in his hand. This isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he set out to repair this room.

“Hello there.”

“Merlin!” Draco exclaims when the male voice coming out of nowhere startles him from his fascinated state, nearly making him drop his journal. He whips out his wand and looks around frantically before noticing the portrait on the wall behind the dining table.

“Why, that’s me.” Says the dark-haired young man in the portrait, his blue eyes piercing.

“What?” Draco blinks, lowering his wand.

“I thought you said Merlin.”

“I did—” He frowns, “You’re Merlin?”

The young man in the portrait nods, and Draco’s disbelief only deepens as he takes a closer look at him. The man’s sitting in a plain wooden chair, dressed in medieval peasant clothing that all seems quite ragged and worn. His faded blue tunic looks like it’s been washed way too many times.

“You’re joking. There’s no known portrait of Merlin at Hogwarts. And you can’t possibly be—Those are peasant clothes you’re wearing, and you don’t have a beard.”

“Well I couldn’t possibly have looked like _that_ when I was young, could I?” The young man rolls his eyes, looking half indignant and half amused. He then leans back in his chair and absentmindedly waves his right hand, conjuring the flames in the fireplace into the shape of a baby dragon. Draco notices it then, the bright red cape draped over the arm of the chair—It’s embellished with a golden, embroidered dragon that looks rather regal. It matches the color scheme of the room.

“Good work you’ve done there, these past few weeks. Draco Malfoy, is that right?”

“How do you—” Draco frowns.

“There aren’t many things I don’t know.” The man who claims to be Merlin smiles mysteriously, “You also look awful like your ancestor. He was in my year. Kind of a prat if you ask me, but rather brilliant at potions.”

Now, to say Draco’s stunned might be an understatement.

“You’re Merlin.” He shakes his head, trying to process the information, before suddenly realizing that he’s talking to one of the greatest wizards of all time. “I mean, _sir_.”

“Well, sort of. I’m in a portrait.”

“But what’s your portrait doing in Gryffindor’s secret room? I thought you were a Slytherin?” Draco frowns. This is all too bizarre.

“Who said anything about Gryffindor?” Merlin looks almost confused for a moment, before suddenly laughing out loud, “Oh, _oh_ , you think Godric—no. I can see how the colors are misleading, though.”

“What?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” Draco looks up to find those blue eyes glinting mischievously at him, “You’re standing in what used to be my residence at Hogwarts.”

_Merlin’s beard._

 

 

“Have a seat, Draco.” Merlin gestures to the dining table.

Hesitating for a moment, Draco does as he’s told, and pulls out a chair facing the portrait.

“So you’re saying, sir, ” He sits down and glances around again, almost trying to make sure that this isn’t some weird dream, “That you used to live here?”

“Back when I taught Transfiguration here, yes.” Merlin nods. “Before I left, I turned it into what you know to be the Room of Requirement.”

Draco tries to process the information. _Merlin_ , the great _Merlin_ himself, created the Room of Requirement. Salazar, what is with Slytherins and secret rooms?

“What for?”

“Well, Helga was hoping that I’d change my mind and come back someday, so she wanted to keep my residence. I thought that it might as well benefit some students in my absence.”

“And you decorated your room in Gryffindor colors because—?” He can’t help but ask.

“Oh, I think that’s a story for another day.”

“Another day?”

“You do intend on keep on repairing this room, don’t you?” Merlin eyes him quizzically, and the dragon in his hand turns to him too.

“I do, although I had expected it to be severely damaged. That doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.” Draco looks down at his feet, trying to find traces of the fire on the impeccably clean stone floor.

“Oh, it is. The room is capable of physical self-repair, but the transfiguration magic is damaged nonetheless.”

 _Self-repair._ He makes a mental note to look up how that works later.

“I’d be happy to guide you in fixing it, if you’d like.” The wizard in the portrait says, and Draco’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I—I’d be honored.” He sputters, and the older Slytherin tilts his head and narrows his eyes like he can see right through him.

“You have more questions.”

 _Loads._ Draco doesn’t say it out loud. _But there’s one in particular._

“Why me, sir?”

“You’ve always been quite brilliant at fixing things, if I recall correctly.” It’s a compliment from one of the greatest wizards of all time, but it makes Draco want to flinch. The memories of Sixth Year floods back to him. _Of course he knows._ _He’s Merlin._

“And I think both of us can use someone to talk to, don’t you?” Merlin blinks and gives him a kind smile, and the baby dragon made of flames curls up in his hand and starts snoring softly. “Now, time to say goodnight, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco nods and tries not to think about the implications in those words. He stands up and pushes the chair back to its place, still a little dazed.

“Just so you don’t accidentally end up somewhere else, when you come back, remember to require ‘Camelot’,” Merlin adds.

 _Camelot._ Draco nods, and ponders the name as he walks toward the exit, suddenly remembering it from History of Magic. Isn’t that where Merlin served as court sorcerer?

Right when he reaches for the door handle, the voice speaks again,

“Oh, Draco? Tell Mr. Potter to stop poking at the wall with his wand.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Potter?_

Draco closes the door behind him and casts another  _lumos_.

_Has he been following him again?_

He stands still in the middle of the empty hallway and listens.

One, two, three.

Then he picks up on the familiar heavy breathing, coming from maybe only a few feet away from him.

One step, two steps, three steps—

Draco can feel it, the almost scorching body heat radiating from the nothingness in front of him. Maybe half a step more, his own body could be pressed right up against his. Potter’s breathing noticeably picks up pace, and it makes Draco want to reach out to touch.

He remembers that incident on the train, how his blood was boiling in his veins at the thought of Potter trying to stop him, Potter  _destroying_  him.

Or worse, Potter trying to  _save_  him.

Because Potter should never be able to see through him. Because he should never know that even though Draco didn’t  _need_  to be saved, he  _wanted_  to be. And maybe Potter really didn’t know, but he still saved him in the end anyway—yet that might have been the worst part of it all, because it had made Draco  _hope_.

Now that the dust has settled, and the person he’s yearned for is alive and well in front of him, close enough for him to touch yet so far,  _far_  away from his reach, it pains Draco to even glance at his face when they pass each other by in the halls. Yet despite Draco’s avoidance and silence, he’s still here, following him at three o’clock in the morning like it’s Sixth Year all over again, like he’s afraid that Draco might inevitably tumble down some rabbit hole of dark magic, rendering his sincere testimony before Wizengamot a blatant lie, making him regret the decision to save him.

And hell, he sure can make Draco hope, but he can bloody well crush his hope, too.

Draco reaches out and touches the cloak, pinching the silky fabric for a brief moment just to scare the boy under it, before letting it slip through his fingers again. He could picture the face underneath, and it almost makes him laugh.

“I see you haven’t changed at all, Potter.” He leans in to whisper in his ear, and tries not to think too much about why the other boy shivers at his touch.

“But I have.”

Then he walks on past, forcing himself not to look back.

 

  
“He’s still outside, you know.”

Draco returns to the room that night slightly earlier than usual, having come straight from the library with all the relevant books and notes he’s collected on the subject.

Over the past week, Merlin has been giving him spells to try out at various objects in the room to test combinations and effects. Just the day before, Draco has gotten the table to respond to a request and transfigure into a chair, though it refuses to turn back.

He sits down at the dining table with a cup of tea, and starts digging through the references he brought, looking for spells that might make the sentient magic last longer. The comfortable silence in the room stretches for what seems like forever, before it’s broken by Merlin’s sudden mention of Potter.

“Of course he is.” Draco scoffs as he turns the page.

“Do you know why?”

“Oh, he probably thinks that I’m up to some shady business again. After all, he was right before, so he must believe he’s right this time around, too.”Merlin’s falls silent, and Draco can’t help rambling on, barely masking the inexplicable anger raging through him with acrid sarcasm.

“If he’s that concerned he should’ve just left me to rot in Azkaban. But no, he had to play this selfless, forgiving hero and testify, so now he has to keep tabs on me just to make sure I don’t muck it up again and ruin his reputation.”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion so quickly.” Merlin says eventually, pulling at the fraying edges of his tunic absentmindedly.

Draco tries to steady the slight tremble of his hand and starts turning another page, before realizing that he’s merely skimmed the previous one without registering any real information. His hand freezes in mid air for a moment before he sighs heavily and closes the book, frustrated.

He never could focus on anything else when Potter’s involved.

“Alright, so why don’t you tell me what conclusion you would jump to?” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone. It doesn't work.

“None. I would ask him.” Merlin tilts his head and studies Draco intently. In response, he carefully masks his facial expressions against the piercing gaze that makes him want to hide.

“You don’t understand, sir.” Draco shakes his head, “We’re not like that.”

“Not like what?” Merlin presses.

Draco rolls his eyes in resignation and reaches into his robe pocket for his wand. Then he waves it at the mug and watches the still-warm tea swirl and turn into rum.

“If we’re going to discuss Potter, I need something stronger than tea.”

Draco takes a gulp and winces in disgust, to which Merlin raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“We don’t— _talk_.” He sighs, setting his mug back down on the table with a frustrated thud. The wizard in the portrait doesn’t even bother feigning surprise at his answer.

“If I recall correctly, he saved your life, and you saved his.”

 _As if that changed anything for him_ , Draco snorts.

“Then you should also recall that we were never on the best of terms with each other, ever since the day we met.”

“But you would like to be.”

“Yes, of course I—what?” He blinks, suddenly alert at the sight of Merlin’s mischievous smile. “How did you—?”

“Oh, Draco, you’re hardly the most difficult person to read when you’re not putting on an act.”

Draco swallows hard, a lump thick and heavy in his throat.

“More often then not, we choose our friends and our enemies.”

“Right, and he made that choice seven years ago.”

“Who says that it has to be a one-time deal?” Merlin gets up to add a few logs into the fireplace and puts on a kettle, then leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Both of you survived the war and are given the opportunity to choose again, so why won’t you take it?”

“Because he doesn’t want to?”

“What about you?”

“Because—It’s dangerous, alright?” He sighs and mutters a response quietly. The rum burns pleasantly in his stomach and starts to make him feel warm and fuzzy all over.

“Everything about him.”

"Being who we are, we can’t be friends.” Draco leans back in his chair and looks up at the medieval style chandelier, staring intently at the shadows the flickering flames cast on the ceiling as he feels the alcohol kick in slowly, breaching his defenses. “I should’ve known that from the start. But he—he’s like the sun. Not because of the scar, or the legend, just  _him_. Bloody hell, that must’ve been the stupidest thing I’ve ever said in my life.”

“No.” Merlin sounds almost wistful, “ I understand.”

“All these years, I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe if I wasn’t a Malfoy and he wasn’t the Chosen One, we’d probably—get on, you know?”

Merlin’s quiet for a long moment. And when Draco turns to look at the portrait wizard again, he’s staring at him with a frown, as if he’s seeing another person through Draco.

“I think it’s time for that story I promised.”

“Story about what?”

“About Camelot.” The look on the great wizard’s face is the most somber Draco has ever seen. “About Arthur.”

 

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight—” Draco’s almost finished with his rum when Merlin starts talking about a speaking dragon that sees the future. “You worked as a  _servant_  for a  _Muggle_  because a dragon told you that you must?”

“A Muggle  _prince_.” Merlin points out, like that should really matter.

“Right, a Muggle prince.” He downs the rest of his drink, “And said  _prince_  threw vegetables at you when you first met?”  
Merlin rolls his eyes, nodding reluctantly. And when Draco barks out a laugh, he’s smiling too.

“Fine, he might’ve been a git at first, I’ll admit.”

“Blimey, that’s not at all what Binns told us in History of Magic.” Draco forces himself to stop laughing when his stomach starts to hurt, and clears his throat a few times to recover. “But you must’ve got on with him well enough to become his court sorcerer later, no?”

The light in those deep blue eyes dims at Draco’s words, and although Draco’s slightly too buzzed to really think about what he might’ve said wrong, it doesn’t prevent his shock at what Merlin tells him next.

“This is one of those stories obliterated by history.” The young wizard in the portrait smiles wistfully, “Or romanticized, depending on where you stand.”

“I was never Arthur’s court sorcerer. There was no such thing.”

Draco gapes.

“Because Camelot persecuted magic.”

 

“All those years, you stood by his side and protected him without receiving any credit?”

“I didn’t need credit.” Draco’s on his second drink now. And even Merlin’s drinking in the portrait, slumping in his chair with his head tilted to the side. “It was my destiny.”

“You really believed in that?”

“I did.” He doesn't even hesitate. “I do.”

 _Do all portraits speak_   _as if they’re still alive?_  A fleeting thought occurs to Draco before it slips from his fuzzy brain again.

“What did it feel like, risking everything for someone who might not appreciate it?” He asks instead.

“I reckon that you know the answer to that already.”

Draco frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What did it feel like, lying to your aunt and Voldemort for him?” Merlin asks bemusedly, “Tossing your wand to him when you know it could get you killed?”

“It felt like—” He pauses. Suddenly he’s back in that moment, to that flash of emerald green when Potter turned back and looked right at him, straight into his soul. His eyes were the same color as the killing curse, but they made Draco feel so  _alive_.“It felt like even if whole world crumbles in the next moment, I couldn’t care less.”

“Precisely.”

 

  
“But did you tell him eventually?”

“Yes, at the end.”

“How did he react?”

“He said ‘thank you’.” The older Slytherin looks pained at the memory. A sad smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he shuts his eyes, like he’s trying to stop tears from falling. “He told me to never change.”

Silence looms over the space between them, the ticking of the clock on the wall is amplified a thousand fold, echoing in the empty room.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asks eventually.

“Don’t you see, Draco?” Merlin glances down at the cape draped over the arm of his chair and splays his fingers gently over the embroidered dragon, caressing it like one would a lover’s cheek. “I wish I had told him sooner. I wish there were fewer secrets between us. I wish I had said all the things I wanted to say. I wish we had more time. And now, I don’t want to see you make the same mistake.”

“This room doesn’t only look like Camelot. It  _was_  my Camelot.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Implied self-harm

When he gathers up his belongings and bids Merlin goodnight, Draco’s still a little dazed from the rather incredible discoveries he’s made over the course of their long conversation. He’s not even sure which one he finds the most shocking, whether it’s history’s drastic alteration and fabrication of Merlin’s story, his firm belief in his destiny to serve Arthur, or the fact that he essentially recreated a piece of Camelot for himself with this room. What Draco is absolutely certain about though, is something Merlin didn’t have to spell out for him. Slytherins simply do not risk their lives for just anyone—To Merlin, Arthur must’ve been his everything and more.

What is Harry Potter to him, then?

Draco’s already walking toward the door when his foggy brain recalls that Potter might still be outside. He doesn’t get the opportunity to ponder over his options, because as soon as he opens the door, he finds Potter sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The other boy startles at the sound of the door and jumps to his feet, but soon drops his defense at the sight of him.

“Hey.” He greets him, sounding breathless and almost a bit embarrassed, his green eyes sparkling in the silvery light emitting from the tips of their wands. It takes a moment for Draco to register the absence of his invisibility cloak. He didn’t even bring it.

Potter’s gaze is flickering, and there’s a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in the hand tightly gripping his wand, betraying his thinly veiled nervousness.

 _Nervous?_ Draco’s surprised at his own conclusion. _Harry Potter gets nervous. What a concept._

They walk back together in a tense silence, accompanied only by the monotonous taps of their footsteps echoing in the dark and empty hallway. Eventually, Potter follows him through the portrait entrance. And just as he’s heading up the staircase back to his room, he hears Potter blurt out, like it had taken him all this while to muster up the courage—

“That’s not why, you know.”

Turning around, he finds Potter standing only a few meters away from him, staring at his feet intently looking torn. Draco soon gets a vague idea of what he’s talking about, but decides to pretend he doesn’t and puts on his usual look of distain, hoping that the other boy can’t see past it in the dim firelight.

“I’m not a Legilimens, Potter.”

“Oh, come on Malfoy,” Potter glances back up at him and rolls his eyes. “I know you think that I’m following you because I still doubt you, because I suspect that you’re up to no good.”

“Do you not?” He breathes, then swallows hard when he hears the tremble in his own voice, suddenly terrified of what it might give away. He wants to step back, but his limbs don’t seem to be listening to him. It’s not even a question. _Of course he does. He’s just lying because he got caught._

“I don't.” Staring straight into his eyes, Potter steps even closer and holds his gaze with newfound resolve, looking all too earnest and sincere now it makes Draco angry and hopeful all at once.

 _Just ask him, like Merlin had said._ _It can’t hurt more than it already does._

“Then to what do I owe the honor of being stalked by you again?”

Potter’s silent all of a sudden, looking like he’s scrambling for an answer but can seem to find a plausible one. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. And as if his heart has just been dropped from high above the clouds, Draco’s suddenly hit with an all too familiar sharp twinge in his chest. He shakes his head in mockery and ill-disguised disappointment, hating himself for his stupid, ridiculous _feelings._

“And you say you’re not suspicious. How convincing, Potter.” He closes his eyes and settles for the truth, suddenly exhausted. “I’m fixing that room. You’ve got a problem with that?”

Unlike what Draco would’ve expected though, Potter doesn’t appear surprised or incredulous. He seems _relieved_.

“That’s—good. Brilliant, actually.”

“What?” He blinks.

“I just—” There’s a brief, frustrated pause, and Potter runs his fingers through the unruly dark strands on his head, like he’s already regretting what he’s about to say, but can’t seem to stop himself because he simply can’t hold it in anymore.

“I was worried, alright?” He blurts out, and Draco frowns in a mix of confusion and astonishment.

“You were _what_?” _Did he just—_

“You heard me.” Potter mutters, his jawline tightening, and Draco’s not entirely sure if he wants to punch it or trace his finger over it.

“Um, anyhow.” He’s fidgeting with a loose strand of yarn on his jumper, his gaze flickering everywhere but at him. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

Before he could even start processing what’s been said, Potter rushes past him up the stairwell, and with a rather loud slam of the door disappears into his room in a whirlwind. Draco leans back against the wall and stares blankly at Potter’s door, unable to quiet the chaotic voices in his head.

_What in Merlin’s name just happened?_

They don’t talk about it.

They don’t talk about it when they pass each other by in the Great Hall, when their eyes meet from across the room; They don’t talk about it when they run into each other in the Common Room, where Potter’s curled up alone in the red armchair by the fire doing schoolwork, giving his best friends some space; They don’t talk about it in Potions, when Draco’s grinding up dried knotgrass in a mortar and Potter’s slowly stirring the purple liquid bubbling in their shared caldron, the tension in the thick air between them palpable.

They do, however, form some sort of mutual understanding. Potter keeps following him, and Draco stops asking why because he has nothing to hide. Thankfully, Potter usually stays in the hallway minding his own business while Draco works inside. He doesn’t ask him what he’s doing or how far he’s gotten, and never makes mention of wanting to come in. He simply walks with Draco back to their dormitory every time, occassionally making polite small talk before bidding him goodnight, like he’s waiting for Draco to start a real conversation, which Draco fails to do every time. They’re civil with each other for the first in seven years, and it feels so foreign and strange, but also long overdue.

Draco soon notices that Potter seems to always know when he goes to the Room of Requirement. He’s there every time Draco is, but on the days that Draco stays in, he could always hear through their shared wall Potter’s radio playing Muggle rock music late into the night.

He doesn’t ask him how he knows. Instead, he asks, one day as they head down the hall—

“How are you always up so late?”

“I can’t sleep.” Potter replies, sounding nonchalant, “Nightmares.”

Draco can’t help thinking that they might have some things in common, after all.

“Is that what keeps you up, too?” He probes cautiously, like he’s trying his best not to offend.

“No, it’s somebody’s _horrendous_ taste in music.” Rolling his eyes, Draco drawls sarcastically, “If you can’t tone it down, at least listen to a better station.”

To his surprise, the other boy barks out a loud laugh, and he can’t seem to stop his lips from curving upwards into a smile, too.

“Hey, I have great taste in music.” Potter elbows him in the ribs jokingly, in a movement so natural that if Draco doesn’t know better, he’d think that they’ve been doing this for ages. He realizes in a daze that two years ago, something like this could launch them into incessant taunts and perhaps even a full-on fight.

So what are they now? Some sort of—he’s almost scared to finish the thought— _friends_?

“Alright, the station’s pretty lousy, I’ll admit.” Potter doesn’t seem to notice his little existential crisis though as he keeps talking, “But there aren’t many to choose from.”

“That’s just because you’re terrible at finding them.” He scoffs absentmindedly, still too absorbed in his drifting thoughts, “You have to bypass some wards.”

“Huh.” Surprise flashes across Potter’s eyes for a split of a second, aimed not so much at the answer itself but at Draco. “I’ll, uh, ask Hermione about it.”

Potter noticeably pauses for a brief moment as if there’s something else he wants to say, but then changes his mind and looks away.

The mention of Granger pulls Draco back into reality. They’re reaching the end of the hall now, the warm glow of the lamps hanging by the portrait entrance comes into view, and his heart sinks involuntarily at the thought of their first proper conversation ending before it’s even started. An unusually impulsive idea occurs to him then, and he gives himself no time to hesitate before blurting it out.

“I can do it, if you’d like.”

His voice is shaking, and it probably comes across as a little too desperate. Panic rises in his chest, filling up his lungs and making him a little dizzy. There’s a heavy lump in his throat and he swallows hard, barely breathing. It takes all of his courage (if he even has any to begin with) to turn around to look at Potter, bracing himself for everything from disbelief to mockery.

But the Chosen One’s grinning at him—if only a little awkwardly, his eyes sparkling.

“Sounds brilliant.”

 

So that's how he ends up sitting cross-legged on Harry Potter’s bed at midnight, fiddling with the buttons on his radio, while Potter sits next to him chewing a licorice stick, his feet dangling off the bed.

 _Salazar_ , isn’t this just surreal.

“Malfoy.” When he opens up the back cover, revealing the components and colorful wires, Potter pokes a finger at him, “You’re not going to break it, right?”

“Of course not, idiot.”

“Since when do you listen to the radio?” Potter leans over to examine the parts with curiosity, and Draco gets temporarily distracted by how dangerously close he is that he nearly breaks a wire.

“My mother always did.” He answers evasively. “She secretly enjoys Celestina Warbeck songs.”

“But I doubt she has to tamper with her radio to listen to those, so where did you learn to do this?”

Alright, so Potter might not be that big of an idiot after all.

“During the war. I—” Draco stills his hand, sighing as the memory comes back to him, “I had to make sure they didn’t know what I was listening to.”

“Oh.” The other boy seems a little taken aback, “What were you listening to?”

Draco could tell from the cautiousness in his voice that Potter probably has a vague idea of what the answer might be. He could lie, of course, but at this point it’s rather useless. Besides, between the two of them, there have been more than enough lies.

“That underground radio station Lee Jordan started—”

“Potterwatch.” He interrupts softly, and Draco dares not to guess what he might be thinking, “Why?”

“Well, it was the only way to find out who had died. And—” He pauses, swallowing hard.

 _Don’t._ A voice in his head is screaming. _It can’t change what you’ve done._

He glances up at Potter, whose soft expression speaks encouragement, and something that resembles hope.

“And to find out where you might be. I thought if I knew ahead of time then maybe I could—” He starts regretting it then, because lying would’ve been so much easier. “Help.”

“Didn’t work out that way in the end, of course.” Draco adds weakly, remembering all the nights he spent alone in his room, clutching to the radio he had stolen from his mother and wishing for any traces of _him_ , when the rest of his home was submerged in darkness and reeked of the rusty scent of blood. He turns to meet Potter’s gaze. It's _burning_.

“Anyhow,” He clears his throat, shifting his focus back to the small black box in his lap, and absentmindedly pushes the sleeves of his uniform shirt up to his elbows, “Almost there.”

_Hold on._

When Draco scrambles to pull his left sleeve back down it’s already too late. Potter’s staring at his left forearm, at the remnant of the Dark Mark now covered in long, thin scars.

_Fuck._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry Potter is the saviour of the Wizarding World, the beacon of everything that is right and good. He’s a flash of lightening in the dark and gloomy sky, mid-July, electrifying and powerful. He’s a masterpiece behind a velvet rope, so close, yet just far enough to be out of reach.

Harry Potter is his nemesis, but when he reaches out for Draco’s left arm and tentatively rolls the sleeve back up, his expression more hurt than shocked like he’d been _expecting_ this, Draco lets him.

“The other day, when you asked me why I was following you—” After a long silence, Potter whispers. He’s staring at the longest scar, the one that splits the faded skull in half, looking pained for reasons unknown, glancing back up at him, “I wasn’t lying when I said I was worried.”

Draco tries not to flinch at the mention of what happened that night, but the concerned look Potter gives him makes him want to retreat.

“I, well, overheard Parkinson talking about it with Zabini. She hinted at it, that you—” Potter swallows hard but holds his gaze, his eyes the softest Draco has ever seen, “I could always hear you leaving in the middle of the night.”

“Potter.” He interrupts him coldly, clenching his teeth at the sinking feeling in his stomach and starts pulling down the fabric bunched around his elbow. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” The other boy rushes out and grabs Draco’s wrist, gripping hard, colors climbing up his cheeks. “I—”

Draco freezes, unable to withdraw his arm despite the disapproving voice screaming in his head. He glances at the calloused fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, and then looks back at Potter expectantly.

“I didn't want you to feel that you were alone.”

He can’t help but gapes, and Potter winces slightly at the expression on his face, but doesn’t make a move of letting him go. The room’s quiet—too quiet that it makes him panic, wondering whether Potter could hear the rattling thumps of his heart, threatening to burst from the confines of his ribcage.

“And why’s that?” He breathes.

The rational side of him knows that it could just be Potter being his usual altruistic self, but still that doesn’t make sense. Saving his life and testifying at his trial was the work of his moral integrity and sense of righteousness, but this—this is something different. This is kindness, and Harry Potter has never shown him kindness, nor did he ever have a reason to.

“Because I’d rather have you throwing hexes at me in the halls than walking by like a ghost.” He sighs, his eyes fluttering close, “because no one deserves to suffer more than they already do.”

“I _was_ one of them, Potter.” Draco drops his gaze to the now blurred mark on his forearm, “What I’ve done cannot ever be undone.”

“Which, mind you, includes saving my life.” He cracks a smile, but the look in his eyes soon turns somber. “I was there when Dumbledore died, you know.”

Draco stiffens, from shock as well as from the absolute dread of remembering that night on the Astronomy Tower, but Potter’s grip on his wrist doesn’t loosen, and the warmth radiating from his palm stills his trembling hand.

“I was hiding under my cloak, watching you. You pointed your wand at him, and I was so certain that you were going to go through with it. But then you didn’t, and only after a long time did it occur to me how wrong I was about you. It never was your choice to become one of them, just like it was never my choice to become the Chosen One. We both did what we had to do to save those we love, so who was I to claim the moral high ground?” Potter stares intently at the crisscrossing scars over the faded Dark Mark, examining, sadness and regret lingering in those piercing emerald eyes, “I still think about it sometimes, that day in the lavatory, instead of throwing _Sectumsempra_ at you I could’ve just asked you what was wrong.”

“That wasn’t your fault.” He manages to say, his throat tight.

“The war wasn’t your fault, either.”

“I was an accomplice, Potter. Nothing can ever change that.”

Potter sighs heavily and shakes his head, looking a little exasperated but determined nonetheless.

“Draco, listen to me.” He meets his eyes and demands, and Draco’s chest clenches at the way his name rolls off of Potter tongue, soft and sincere, like that’s how he’s always been calling him. “You can’t erase what you’ve done, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean your life has to be defined by it. You are not a bad person—far from it, in fact, so stop punishing yourself for a choice you never made. It’s all over now and you survived. And what’s the point of making it out alive, if you refused to _live_?”

Potter lets go of his wrist, and moves over to brush a thumb over the longest scar on his forearm, the one that splits the skull in half, tracing it gingerly, leaving a warm tingling sensation that lights up the nerve endings under his skin. In that moment, somewhere beneath those scars, the still raw, open wound finally starts to heal, and his shattered world is made anew.

“Consider it atonement, if you must, but don’t give up.” He murmurs, withdrawing his hand and looks up to catch Draco’s eyes, his voice gentle and almost pleading, “Have we not lost enough?”

“Why, Potter.” Draco whispers, half stunned and half mesmerized, trying in vain to calm his frantically beating heart, “I’m beginning to think that you secretly care about me.”

“In your dreams, Malfoy.” He beams warmly at him, radiating hope like the morning sun, and Draco wonders in a daze if this really is some bizarre dream because Harry Potter has never smiled at him like that. Those eyes are glinting playfully, but with a hint of caution and restraint. _Perhaps I do._ They seem to be saying instead.

“Now, can you fix this radio or not? ”

 

 

“You’re not expecting me to pay you for this, are you?”

In the middle of fiddling with his newly improved radio, Potter looks up and asks.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I think I might.”

He had meant it as a joke, of course, but Potter huffs in mock annoyance and gets up, kneels beside his bed to reach for something from underneath. Moments later he’s back on his feet, holding up a bottle of firewhiskey and waving it in front of Draco.

“Will this do?”

“I think you’re just using me as an excuse to get drunk, Potter.” Watching as he twists open the screw cap, Draco shakes his head in amusement.

“So what if I am?” Surprisingly, Potter simply shrugs and takes a sip, before holding out the bottle towards him, grinning. “Are you saying no?”

To Draco’s own astonishment, he laughs and takes the bottle.

That’s how they end up sitting across from each other on Potter’s bed, 3 a.m., each leaning against a bed post with their legs outstretched, their knees close enough to touch, while exchanging banters and passing back and forth the bottle of Ogden’s Potter had smuggled in from Hogsmeade last weekend. The radio lies flat on the bed next to Potter, playing some late-night music programme he chose after spending quite some time going through all the newly discovered Muggle stations. Draco can’t help but marvel at how easy it is to just be here with him, drinking and talking instead of hexing each other to death. It wasn’t supposed to be, it had seemed, yet somehow it just _is_ , like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place.

Another song is coming up now, a melancholic guitar intro filling the room, and it seems like Potter knows and likes it well.

“I dare you to listen to this one and _then_ tell me Muggles have terrible music.”

Draco feigns a scoff, but takes the bottle from him, drinks, savoring the pleasant burn as the alcohol hits the back of his throat, and listens to the song anyway. The lead singer’s voice is raspy but gentle, strangely comforting in the middle of the night. It’s still a rock song, but not so loud and clamorous as some of the other ones he’s heard. It’s not a bad one, he admits to himself with a shrug. He fails to catch any of the lyrics, though, because he soon gets a little distracted by his former nemesis. Potter’s eyes are closed and his head’s leaned back, exposing his slender neck and his Adam’s apple. He’s singing along to the song softly, appearing more relaxed than Draco has ever seen.

Draco takes another gulp of firewhisky, but doesn’t tear his gaze off of him. Potter stops his humming then and opens his eyes, a dark, hazy green, smoldering with something that resembles longing. They hold each other’s gaze, while the song keeps playing.

_“And I don’t want the world to see me_

_‘Cause I don’t think that they’d understand—”_

“I believe I still owe you an apology.” He blurts out before he could regret it, letting the alcohol-induced impulse surging in his bloodstream take over his sensible head for once, “I’m sorry. For all these years.”

“What a coincidence.” The other boy smiles after a flicker of surprise flashes across his eyes, “I’m sorry, too.”

Draco had pictured numerous scenarios where this apology would take place in, but this surely isn't one of them. The conversations he had drawn up in his head were awkward at best, often forced, and some even hostile and violent, but they were never like this, never _comfortable_. He was convinced that seven years of animosity and hatred was a weight that could never be lifted, but the way Potter’s lips curled upwards seems to suggest otherwise.

“Do you ever wonder,” They listen to the song in silence for a few moments before Potter whispers, all too quiet that it almost gets drowned out by the drum line, “if things could’ve been different, if I had shook your hand on that first day?”

“I thought you were advocating for not thinking about the things that can’t be changed?” Draco raises an amused eyebrow, doing his best to ignore sharp twist of regret in his stomach.

“Right, but is it? Something that can’t be changed?”

“You’re either messing with me or you’re really drunk, Potter.” He shakes his head, and tries to dissuade his heart from leaping at whatever the other boy might be insinuating.

“Can’t change the past, of course, but what about the future?”

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this, you prat.” Potter turns to him then and their eyes lock, the fog in those the deep pools of green parts to reveal unwavering resolve. He straightens his back, and holds out his hand.

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Draco blinks, twice, then stares at the outstretched hand in front of him. The memory from their first encounter at Hogwarts seven years ago flashes in front of his eyes, leaving him lightheaded and dazed, not quite able to believe that this is all real.

Yet it is, somehow. Across from him, Potter’s hair is still a hopeless mess. A few unruly strands fall on his forehead, casting a shadow over the famous scar. They’re sitting ridiculously close to each other, their knees almost touching, and the heat radiating off of Potter’s body is just about the realest thing Draco has ever felt. On the radio, the man’s still singing, desperate yet hopeful, and it sounds like redemption.

_“When everything’s made to be broken_

_I just want you to know who I am—”_

“Draco Malfoy.” He takes his hand, and all he could seem to think is _finally._ “Pleasure’s all mine.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: The song in the radio is Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls (1998)


End file.
